Gabe
by Thobbit
Summary: After "Hammer of the Gods", because Gabriel is quite simply too awesome and clever to be killed. It was not, however, a simple process. Fluff warning.
1. Chapter 1

I own nothing except my OCs, and even then they aren't actually copyrighted. I just wanted to give someone a happy ending, for once in this angst-filled, everyone-dies-and-has-daddy-issues, completely wonderful show.

-{+}-

1.

Elaine flopped onto the bed and switched on the tv. She flipped through the channels aimlessly, too tired to really care. Thank God it was Friday.

Gabriel toddled into the small apartment bedroom, clutching his sippy cup and a half-eaten Fudgey Wafer. He reached up to her and she pulled him onto the bed, deftly swiping the cookie from his already chocolate-stained fingers. It was a marvel, really, how quickly he could locate the nearest source of sugar. They hadn't been home for more than twenty minutes, and she'd hid the box again that morning––on the top shelf of the cabinet.

"Hello, my miracle boy," she cooed, bouncing him playfully on the bed.

He squirmed, like any self-respecting three-year-old when hugged by his mother. "We a'ready said 'Hi'," he pointed out.

Elaine smiled. "I can't say 'Hi' again? After all, I didn't see you all day."

"No," said Gabriel firmly. "We say 'Bye' when I go to school in the morning, and 'Hi' when you get me in the afternoon."

"Okay," she agreed. "No greetings at home." She was so grateful that Gabe was happy to be left each day with nothing but a "Bye!" and a hand-wave. She often felt like she was the one suffering separation anxiety, instead of her son. If only she didn't have to work all day...but rent was always due, and the alternative was pulling the night shift.

Gabriel had already switched his attention to the tv, oblivious to her reverie. She glanced over. It was the news again––more bloody murders, of course. 'If it bleeds, it leads.' At least they weren't in the City this time, but some crazy killing spree jumping around America. So check that, she supposed: they weren't in New York _yet_.

Gabriel was frowning at the screen

"What's wrong, sweetie?" she asked, reaching for the remote. Little kids shouldn't be exposed to this sort of violence, she'd read somewhere. It could hurt their growing minds.

"It's wrong," he said, clutching his sippy cup. "The news people are wrong."

"About what?"

"The Win-ches-ters." He pronounced the name carefully, copying the announcer's Network accent. God knew Elaine didn't talk like that, born'n'raised in Brooklyn.

"How are they wrong?" she humored him.

He swiveled to face her, bright green eyes filled with all the seriousness a three-year-old could muster. Those were from his dad, wherever that one-night-stand got off to––not that she regretted one minute of it, now. "They're nice people," he insisted. "The Win-ches-ter brothers are good. They don't just kill people."

"And how do you know that?" she asked lightly, alarm and confusion warring in her thoughts.

"Because," Gabriel replied, as if that answered everything in the world. He hopped off the bed and waved his cup, moving on with life. "Can we have macaroni an' cheese for dinner now?"


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Krissy was doing the dishes when someone knocked on the door.

"One moment!" she called, running the plate under the faucet one last time. At least spaghetti sauce was easy to rinse off.

She switched off the sink and went to the door, wiping her hands on her jeans. It wouldn't be Elaine, not so early, and she had a key anyway. Solicitors didn't usually come up as far as apartments. Maybe Gabe's friend from a few floors up, that kid Martha? But it was pretty close to bedtime for that.

She looked through the peephole, just in case, one hand reflexively checking the flat knife sheath up her left sleeve. Krissy Chandler wasn't one to be caught by surprise, and this _was_ New York City.

It wasn't that much of a stretch of imagination to see the man as a psychopath, or possibly a homeless person. He looked about fifty, hair just starting to go gray. Jeans, jacket, and wrinkled plaid shirt were all worn and torn, and none looked like it'd been washed for at least a week. Nor did he. There were faint bags under his eyes, and a healthily developing bruise stretched across one cheek.

"Dad!" she squealed, opening the door and flinging her arms around Lee Chandler's neck.

He gave her a perfunctory hug. "Hey."

Krissy pulled back, eyeing him with concern. "What's wrong? Are you hurt? You were on some vamps, right? Did they––" She cut herself off, glancing back inside the apartment. She could hear the jingle of cartoons––good, Gabe was still occupied, for now.

"Come in," she urged, closing the door behind him to cut off protest. "Sit down." She pointed to the small sofa. "Elaine won't be off her shift for another few hours, so it's just me and Gabe right now. We can talk."

Before her dad could open his mouth, a demanding six-year-old voice sounded from the kitchen. "Krissy, can I have some more dessert now?" A squeak of cabinet doors and rustling of wrappers suggested the request was superficial at best.

"Speak of the devil," she joked.

Her dad gave a flickering grin. "Cute kid," he commented.

"He's not that bad," she assured him. "Just a bit fond of candy."

She nipped into the kitchen and neatly snatched a lollipop from Gabriel's hand before it could reach his mouth. "No more," she said in her best Adult Voice. "Why don't you meet my daddy instead? He came over for a visit."

He sighed despondently as she lifted him off the counter. "Just a little bit more lolly?"

"No." She carried him back to the living room and set him on the floor. "See, this is my dad, Lee. He raised me just like your mom raises you."

"Nice to meet you," said Lee, crouching to shake hands. "Krissy's told me about you. I hear you like chocolate?"

Gabriel's eyes widened in shock as he stared at Krissy's dad, and his mouth dropped open. He screamed, high, with what she recognized (after nearly a year of false alarms and potty-themed practical jokes) as genuine terror, and quickly ran around to hide behind her legs.

"Gabe, what's wrong?" She dropped to her knees to give him a hug, and he buried his face in her shoulder already starting to sob.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," she said, stroking his hair. She glanced up at her dad, who was watching them with an expression of alarm. "I don't know what's got into him. He's not usually shy with strangers. The opposite, really."

"Maybe I should just step outside for a minute," he suggested.

"That might work," she agreed gratefully. "I'll put him to bed. I'm sorry––"

"That's fine." He let himself back out, not quite closing the door behind. That was so typical, that he wanted to be able to rush back in and help.

Krissy stood, hoisting Gabriel up on one hip. His sobbing was already fading away. "C'mon, buddy," she said gently. "You've had a long day, I bet. Time for bed."

The bedtime ritual was a familiar one––Krissy had been babysitting Gabe on Elaine's night shifts at the hospital since early freshman year. Krissy had been volunteering at the hospital, checking out NYU's Pre-Med options, and she'd overheard Elaine complaining to one of the other nurses about childcare. Krissy needed a job; Elaine needed a babysitter from five to midnight, Tuesdays and Fridays. It cut down on social things, but she'd never given much thought to dates, and there was always Saturday. And Gabe was a pretty great kid, sweet tooth and mischievous streak wider than the Hudson River aside.

Tonight, he let her pajamafy and toothbrush him without protest, a warning sign if she'd ever seen one. They had a song instead of a story, because it was Tuesday.

"Sweet dreams," she said, tucking the covers under his chin. His eyes were already just slivers of green visible under the closing eyelids.

A small hand reached out and grabbed her wrist. "Krissy."

"Yes?"

Gabriel pushed himself up on one elbow, dislodging the blanket. "I didn't cry because I'm scared. I was surprised. He looks funny."

Krissy smiled. "I suppose he does," she admitted, thinking over the ripped clothing and spectacular bruise. "He has an exciting job."

"No," said Gabe, shaking his head seriously. "Not funny-silly. Funny-bad. His face is wrong."

"Now _you're_ being silly," she said firmly, pushing him down to the pillow. "He's just my dad." She flipped off the lamp, leaving only the glowing numbers on the bedside clock, and walked to the door. "Nite nite!"

"Sleep tight," he replied obediently.

"And don't let the bedbugs bite."

Her dad was waiting on the couch again when she came back out.

"Sorry about that," she repeated, taking a seat next to him. "I don't know what's got into him."

"Kids. What are you supposed to do."

Krissy looked at him sidelong. "Tell them you're a traveling salesman and leave them alone for long periods of time?"

He coughed uncomfortably. "Listen, Krissy, I was wondering..."

"Yeah?"

"Remember those two boys who helped us out a couple years ago? With the vetalas?"

"I'd say I helped you all out," she corrected. It was still one of her better moments, viewed mostly with the terror-erasing effects of memory. "The Winchesters, yeah?"

"Have you heard from them?" he asked intently. "Any idea where they are?"

"Someone at the Old Haint said they were up in Boise, taking down a nest of werewolves. But that was like three months ago." Krissy paused, voice sharpening. "Why'd you ask? Sam'n'Dean deal with big stuff, you know that. You said you weren't going to be doing anything risky since I'm going to NYU. We made a deal."

He shrugged. "You know I mostly said that to get you out of my hair."

"What?" She leaned back in surprise.

He grinned, but the glint of humor in his eyes was far crueler than usual. "You had one good attack, once, with the Winchesters, then you chickened out and went to college! Whatever happened to saving people, avenging your family?"

"What the hell, Dad!"

"Exactly." His hand gripped her wrist like iron, holding her on the sofa and keeping her from grabbing her blade. His eyes were solid black.

"I don't want to hurt you," the demon said quickly. "Well, I do, but I'm busy. I mostly just want to know where the Winchesters are."

"Why?" she said boldly. Oh God (if there was one, if he was listening,) Gabe was asleep not ten yards away...

The demon's eyes followed hers as they flickered toward the boy's bedroom. It grinned. "I have a score to settle. Play nice and I'll let the kid live, too." It squeezed her wrist so tightly she swore the bones shifted. It hurt. "You're absolutely certain they're in Boise?"

"They were," she panted. "Now get the hell out of my dad."

Krissy brought up a leg, trickier than she would've thought from a sitting position, and kicked him hard in the knee. Iron-tipped boots. He jerked satisfyingly and let her go long enough to spring up and across the room, and settle into a defensive stance. And start reciting an exorcism.

"Now you've just made it interesting," the demon interrupted the flow of the chant. It mirrored her motions, drawing a gun in place of her iron knife––her dad's favorite pistol.

Krissy lunged as she ducked sideways. It was a small living room, really nothing more than a sofa and some wallpaper, and she could reach the demon in a single step.

Not-her-dad knocked the blade out of her hand and shoved her across the room with more force than could logically come from a single human body. She landed halfway through the kitchen doorway, and began scooting furiously backwards––towards the knife drawer. At least one of them had to be iron.

The demon stood in the doorway, holding both her knife and the gun. "I'm a little bit irritated, now!" it called out.

"Krissy, catch!"

Krissy's head jerked up and around as she stood, just in time to grab the salt container out of the air. Gabriel was standing on the kitchen table in front of the open cabinet, from which he'd presumably just taken the purifying condiment. For a moment, the overhead light was positioned just behind his head, lighting his curly brown hair like a halo.

"Duck!" he called, scrambling down to hide under the table.

She ducked and lunged again, and this time her projectile hit the demon square on: half a cup of Safeway-brand generic salt, right in the face. It yelped, skin steaming, and she followed it with another hail of salt crystals and a full exorcism.

It was one of her better moments.

Her dad was still unconscious when Elaine got home, around midnight as usual. At least Gabe was down, too, with natural causes.

"Krissy?" Elaine called softly, though Gabriel slept like a rock. "Why is there a man asleep on my sofa?"

Krissy grabbed up her homework and came into the living room. "He's my dad," she explained. "He just got in from the airport, from California, and he was pretty jet-lagged, so I let him zonk out on the sofa. Is that okay?"

Elaine considered the slumbering form. It was fairly raggedy, but then, Krissy had described her father before. Who knew what sort of hours traveling salesmen kept? "I suppose," she said slowly, shrugging off her coat.

"We'll go now," Krissy assured her. She bent down and shook her dad gently. He woke up this time, thank goodness.

"Whah–" he muttered thickly, squinting at the light. "Krissy? Why-– Where––"

"C'mon, Dad." She pulled him to his feet. "You know, if you'd work less hard, you might get less jet-lag."

He blinked at her confusedly, then went with it. "Sorry, honey. It was a long flight." He rolled his shoulders and turned to Elaine, extending a polite hand. "Thank you for the use of your sofa, Mrs..."

"Greene," she filled in helpfully.

"Of course. Krissy's told me all about you and Gabriel. She really likes this job." He hugged her close, and despite her usual objections to such affectionate behavior, Krissy didn't protest.

"We really like her," Elaine replied easily. She was still in her scrubs. "She and Gabe get along fantastically."

Krissy smiled. "He's a really interesting kid." She gave the apartment a covert once-over––everything looked clean. No evidence of anything...unusual. "I keep being surprised by the things he does." Now to leave before Elaine realized her "jet-lagged" father didn't have a suitcase...

Her dad picked up on her silent cues. "We'd best be going, then. It was very nice to meet you."

Elaine nodded. "The same. I hope you enjoy your stay in New York."

"Thank you," he said as Krissy steered him towards the door. Did parents never stop talking? Even when she was in college?

They went halfway down the block before her dad stopped and turned around. "It was very nice to meet Elaine, Krissy," he started, "I meant to meet her the next time I came to visit you. But last I remember, I was in southern Ohio. So could you please explain what the hell I'm doing in New York City?"

Krissy grimaced. "Exactly."


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Jeremy typed nervously, glancing over his shoulder at every creak of the office door. He couldn't believe he was doing this. Why was he doing this? He was going to get in so much trouble. First he'd be expelled, and then his mom would kill him. Not necessarily in that order.

"What's taking so long?"

Oh, that's right. That's why he was doing this.

"It's a really old computer, Gabe," Jeremy hissed back. "It's barely even touch screen. I need to do everything manually."

There was a creak of wood and a quiet shuffling of papers, and Jeremy didn't need to look to know Gabe was looking through the principal's desk. "I can't believe they still have print-outs," his friend complained. "It's so old."

"It's just middle school," Jeremy argued, not really paying attention. "I bet in high school they have all new––" He broke off, suppressing a crow of delight at the windows popping up onscreen.

"What is it?" asked Gabe. He leaned over Jeremy's shoulder to peer at the screen. "You found me?"

"Almost." Jeremy scrolled down slowly, scanning for 'Greene'. Ordinarily he would've just requested a Search, but this comp was voice-coded.

"There," said Gabe, pointing to his name.

Dutifully, Jeremy tapped open the file.

It was a pretty impressive record for a twelve-year-old. Gabriel Greene, Grade 7, Homeroom Kubiki...followed by about fifty pages of trips to the office, letters to his mother, and sundry complaints.

"We need the one from this morning," Gabe instructed urgently, leaning in even more closely. "Before they call my mom again. She'll ground me, like, forever this time."

"What did you even do?" He was in most classes with Gabe, except for math and history. He couldn't imagine what even Gabe could do that would make his mom so mad she'd ground him forever. Elaine was generally accepted by most of the kids in their grade to be one of the nicer moms.

Gabe muttered something under his breath about rubber bands and bald teachers. Then he pointed excitedly at the screen. "There!" he shouted triumphantly, pressing the tab open himself. "Can you delete it?"

"Shh," said Jeremy. He glanced nervously at the door. His mom, now _his_ mom would _so_ ground him forever.

He tapped open an options file and pressed 'Delete'.

Up popped the usual confirmation box. "Are you certain you want to delete this item?"

Jeremy glanced at Gabe uncertainly. "What if he's already seen it?"

"He didn't," Gabe said confidently. "Mr. Robbins only checks new complaints after lunch, and he won't be back for another fifteen minutes."

As if the Universe was listening, footsteps paused at the office door, and keys scratched the old metal lock.

Jeremy leapt back from the console, nearly stumbling over Gabe. "He's here! We are so busted." His eyes jittered around the room like a scared rabbit.

Gabe's glancing search was much more experienced. "Here," he said, pushing his friend towards a small door half-hidden behind a potted plant. "Supply closet." He opened the door, then darted back to the computer and hit 'Yes'. A tiny trash can appeared, and the file vanished.

"C'mon!" hissed Jeremy, already half-crouched behind and old television set.

Gabe swiped the window closed and darted for the closet. He shut the door as quickly and silently as possible behind him just as the main office door opened with a wrenching squeak.

The closet was dark and cramped, and smelled faintly of old paint. The only light came from the crack under the door, half-obscured by their feet and a box of staplers.

Outside, Mr. Robbins was moving around. "What's he doing?" Jeremy breathed, trying not to sneeze from the dust on the brush by his nose. He felt like Ron and Harry in the teachers' lounge in the second book. At least, he comforted himself, his sister was in no danger of being eaten by a giant snake.

Gabe's eyes glinted like a cat's. "I don't know."

Somehow, Jeremy could tell his friend was grinning, the elated grin he always wore when they were about to get in trouble. He only ever got in trouble with Gabe. "You said he wouldn't be back for another fifteen minutes," he accused quietly.

"Maybe he had to get a pen or something." Gabe shrugged. "Listen."

The desk chair was giving off squeaks as their principal moved it. Jeremy could just barely hear him muttering as he set something on the desk.

"Oh no." Jeremy's eyes widened in the dark. "We didn't log out. Gabe, we didn't log out!" He would've shouted, but had to settle for a fierce and frantic whisper.

"Don't worry," Gabe whispered back, equally fierce. "He won't notice. Lemme think."

"How––" Jeremy started to say, but Gabe's hand reached up and covered his mouth. He stopped, carefully ducking away from it, and peered closely at his friend. Gabe's eyes were closed in concentration.

Suddenly, there was a crash and a loud yelp from the office.

"What––!" Jeremy cut himself off this time, not needing Gabe's quick "Shhh" to know when to be quiet. Not that Mr. Robbins would've noticed a quiet exclamation from his supply closet––he was too busy (Jeremy guessed) falling out of his chair.

Jeremy listened with undeniable delight as the principal picked himself up––using words any student would certainly have been sent to the office for uttering––and stormed into the hallway.

"Come on," said Gabe, already tumbling out of the closet. Jeremy followed more cautiously, still trying not to sneeze.

"We've got to log out."

Gabe darted over and erased their presence from the computer, returning it to the blank screen and password request it'd shown before its exposure to Jeremy's steadily improving hacking finesse. He moved toward the door, gesturing impatiently for his friend to follow.

Jeremy was paused in the middle of the room, admiring the remains of the principal's swiveling desk chair. It was crumpled in a heap on the carpet, back twisted halfway around itself and one of the legs broken clean off.

"Wow," he said, looking from Gabe to the chair and back. "Did you do that?"

Gabe shrugged. "Maybe," he admitted. "I can, you know, sometimes do things? Move things. Little things, with my head." He shrugged again. "Or it just broke on its own. It's an old chair."

Footsteps sounded just outside the door, and both boys froze. The footsteps passed.

"Right," said Jeremy, deciding to think about this stunning new revelation after he was away from the threat of expulsion and eternal grounding. "We need to go. Who knows how long it'll take him to get new screws?"

Gabe rolled his eyes, then stuck out his tongue for good measure. "Come on, then." He sniffed. "You're never going to get good at making trouble if you get yourself caught over chairs."

By the time the principal returned with the janitor. they were out of the office and halfway to the cafeteria, arguing the merits of PB&J over leftover chicken, fortuitously missing screws forgotten.


	4. Chapter 4

4.

"Camilla Greene. Mrs. Camilla Greene. Mr. and Mrs. Gabriel Greene." Camilla whispered the names under her breath as she doodled them in her Mandarin notebook. "Camilla Bancourt-Greene. Or Camilla Greene-Bancourt?" She considered it for a moment. Or maybe he'd change his name. Gabriel Bancourt-Greene...

The ruler snapped down on her desk, missing her hand by a half inch. Camilla jerked up.

-Miss Bancourt!- shrieked a familiar voice. It was a continuing astonishment to most parents that such a grandmotherly-seeming lady as Ms. Zhao could so effectively control a class of thirty high schoolers, but few of her students ever questioned it. Not after the first several lectures.

"Huh?" Camilla said brilliantly.

Ms. Zhao glared at her, then spoke in rapid-fire Chinese. -What is the poet trying to communicate through the symbolism of the lotus blossoms?-

"The lotus blossoms?" she asked, trying to hide the scribblings in her notebook from her teacher's sharp gaze. "He meant––"

-In Mandarin!-

"IMHO, it doesn't really matter at all. I had better things to do last night than read a long-winded poem about lotus blossoms that's just as useless a tool for judging merit today as it was in the Ming Dynasty––a fact you'd realize if you weren't such a tradition-obsessed old bat" was what Camilla didn't say. Because then she'd be kicked out of class and her father would be disappointed and she'd never get into Harvard or (more immediately) that summer internship at the UN...

"Um," she suggested instead, -he was trying to say...-

Just then there was a loud snapping noise, and something shot across the room and knocked a magnet off the whiteboard. It fell with a clatter.

Ms. Zhao turned like a dog seeking a scent. Her gaze, and that of most of the class, settled on a young man sitting nonchalantly in a desk two rows away from Camilla.

-Mr. Greene?- she asked dangerously.

-Yes, Ms. Zhao?-

The teacher glared at him, but she could not, technically, prove he'd just shot a magnet off the board with a rubber band. -Would you like to answer the question?-

-The lotus tree traditionally represents the rebirth of Spring,- he replied easily, -and young love. But Zhu Jantao describes them as 'sickly, like late morning fog', suggesting they are the crushed hope of his love of the unknown lady––the one who denied him in the third verse.-

Ms. Zhao narrowed her eyes and walked stiffly back to the front of the class, resuming her lecture. Camilla turned to a new page of her notebook and tried to actually take notes, but she kept sneaking glances at Gabe. _He_ wasn't taking notes, of course. He never did. That was the thing about Gabriel Greene––the reason a kid from Brooklyn could end up with even a partial scholarship to the prestigious George Hamilton Academy. He just walked into AP Language classes at the start of the year, completely ignorant of the grammar and vocabulary, and by the winter Final, he could hold fluent conversations with the professor. Camilla knew for a fact that he was also taking AP Latin this year, and last year (as a mere freshman!) he'd been in AP French. She'd even heard that his application essay had been half in Spanish and half in Italian.

And he was cute. Between the floppily curly brown hair ("like a hobbit," Camilla's nerdy friend Amy liked to say, and it didn't help that he was shortish), bright green eyes (like Harry Potter––Amy again) and wiry, slightly too-skinny build, Gabe gave the overall impression of a puppy. A mischievous puppy, because, for all the "good behavior or no scholarship" hanging over his head like the Sword of Damocles, he had a well-built underground reputation for pranking.

Furthermore, he was a grade younger than Camilla, and she was still crushing hugely on him. It was really just ridiculous.

Gabe grabbed his backpack and left quickly when the bell rang. Camilla had to stuff her supplies into her own bag way more messily than usual and hurry to catch up.

"Hey," she said totally-not-breathlessly. "Thanks for that, saving me on the lotus blossoms. I totally did not read that poem."

He smiled, Hollywood-perfect but for a slight uptick to one side that lent it the air of a smirk. "No problem. It's actually a pretty easy read."

"I'll get to it before the test," she promised. They dodged around a group of chatting girls. One of them waved to Camilla, but she ignored her. She was on a roll right now. "Got any tips?" A note of envy may have crept into her voice along with the intended admiration.

"I don't know, flash-cards?" Gabe shrugged. "I always just sort of get it. I mean, I had to analyze the poem and stuff, but that's English class. The words, I always just...it's like I knew the language before, and sort of forgot it."

"Cool," said Camilla. "Like that neurological pathway stuff Mr. Boiser was talking about in Bio last week. Residual memory. Maybe you were exposed as a child."

Gabe shrugged again. "I guess." He shifted the weight of his backpack and looked around slightly awkwardly. They were paused in front of a half-open doorway, next to the stairs. "This is my next class. Is yours... I think the crowd's thinning on the stairs."

"Right," Camilla said hurriedly. "I mean, no, it's back up the hallway. But yeah, there are fewer people on the stairs."

He was looking at her like she was nuts. This wasn't going well. She'd never actually asked a boy out before. They'd always asked her.

"Listen, I'm having a sort of party next week, at my house––on the Upper East Side?––and I thought in return for saving my life with Zhao, you could come. I mean, I was going to invite you anyway, because...never mind. But you should definitely come now. Next Friday, at six."

"I have cross-country after school on Fridays, sorta late, but sure."

"Oh, you do cross-country?" She'd stopped by practice one day, to watch. They were doing laps and he'd been in the lead, moving like any second he was going to grow wings and fly even faster. "That's cool. It's okay if you're late."

"Sounds good." He smiled again, lighting up the immediate area. "I'll see you."

The bell rang. "See you!" Camilla called behind her, half-sprinting back up the hall. She doubt he heard, but that was okay. The date was set.

The bell stopped ringing fifteen seconds before she slid into her seat for Pre-Calculus, but Ms. Yates was much more forgiving than Ms. Zhao, and merely raised a warning eyebrow before starting the class.

Three minutes into the first problem, Camilla felt a sharp poke in her back.

"Well?" whispered Amy. "What happened? Bria said you walked by her and the girls with the puppy-hobbit."

Camilla half-turned in her seat, keeping one careful eye on the board. "I did," she said triumphantly. "I've decided to have a small party at my house next Friday. Six o'clock. Spread the word."

Amy raised an eyebrow, disconcertingly like Ms. Yates. "What's the occasion?"

"Spring fling or something. You can make it up." She smiled. "Maybe that lotus trees are in bloom."


	5. Chapter 5

3.

Jeremy typed nervously, glancing over his shoulder at every creak of the office door. He couldn't believe he was doing this. Why was he doing this? He was going to get in so much trouble. First he'd be expelled, and then his mom would kill him. Not necessarily in that order.

"What's taking so long?"

Oh, that's right. That's why he was doing this.

"It's a really old computer, Gabe," Jeremy hissed back. "It's barely even touch screen. I need to do everything manually."

There was a creak of wood and a quiet shuffling of papers, and Jeremy didn't need to look to know Gabe was looking through the principal's desk. "I can't believe they still have print-outs," his friend complained. "It's so old."

"It's just middle school," Jeremy argued, not really paying attention. "I bet in high school they have all new––" He broke off, suppressing a crow of delight at the windows popping up onscreen.

"What is it?" asked Gabe. He leaned over Jeremy's shoulder to peer at the screen. "You found me?"

"Almost." Jeremy scrolled down slowly, scanning for 'Greene'. Ordinarily he would've just requested a Search, but this comp was voice-coded.

"There," said Gabe, pointing to his name.

Dutifully, Jeremy tapped open the file.

It was a pretty impressive record for a twelve-year-old. Gabriel Greene, Grade 7, Homeroom Kubiki...followed by about fifty pages of trips to the office, letters to his mother, and sundry complaints.

"We need the one from this morning," Gabe instructed urgently, leaning in even more closely. "Before they call my mom again. She'll ground me, like, forever this time."

"What did you even do?" He was in most classes with Gabe, except for math and history. He couldn't imagine what even Gabe could do that would make his mom so mad she'd ground him forever. Elaine was generally accepted by most of the kids in their grade to be one of the nicer moms.

Gabe muttered something under his breath about rubber bands and bald teachers. Then he pointed excitedly at the screen. "There!" he shouted triumphantly, pressing the tab open himself. "Can you delete it?"

"Shh," said Jeremy. He glanced nervously at the door. His mom, now _his_ mom would _so_ ground him forever.

He tapped open an options file and pressed 'Delete'.

Up popped the usual confirmation box. "Are you certain you want to delete this item?"

Jeremy glanced at Gabe uncertainly. "What if he's already seen it?"

"He didn't," Gabe said confidently. "Mr. Robbins only checks new complaints after lunch, and he won't be back for another fifteen minutes."

As if the Universe was listening, footsteps paused at the office door, and keys scratched the old metal lock.

Jeremy leapt back from the console, nearly stumbling over Gabe. "He's here! We are so busted." His eyes jittered around the room like a scared rabbit.

Gabe's glancing search was much more experienced. "Here," he said, pushing his friend towards a small door half-hidden behind a potted plant. "Supply closet." He opened the door, then darted back to the computer and hit 'Yes'. A tiny trash can appeared, and the file vanished.

"C'mon!" hissed Jeremy, already half-crouched behind and old television set.

Gabe swiped the window closed and darted for the closet. He shut the door as quickly and silently as possible behind him just as the main office door opened with a wrenching squeak.

The closet was dark and cramped, and smelled faintly of old paint. The only light came from the crack under the door, half-obscured by their feet and a box of staplers.

Outside, Mr. Robbins was moving around. "What's he doing?" Jeremy breathed, trying not to sneeze from the dust on the brush by his nose. He felt like Ron and Harry in the teachers' lounge in the second book. At least, he comforted himself, his sister was in no danger of being eaten by a giant snake.

Gabe's eyes glinted like a cat's. "I don't know."

Somehow, Jeremy could tell his friend was grinning, the elated grin he always wore when they were about to get in trouble. He only ever got in trouble with Gabe. "You said he wouldn't be back for another fifteen minutes," he accused quietly.

"Maybe he had to get a pen or something." Gabe shrugged. "Listen."

The desk chair was giving off squeaks as their principal moved it. Jeremy could just barely hear him muttering as he set something on the desk.

"Oh no." Jeremy's eyes widened in the dark. "We didn't log out. Gabe, we didn't log out!" He would've shouted, but had to settle for a fierce and frantic whisper.

"Don't worry," Gabe whispered back, equally fierce. "He won't notice. Lemme think."

"How––" Jeremy started to say, but Gabe's hand reached up and covered his mouth. He stopped, carefully ducking away from it, and peered closely at his friend. Gabe's eyes were closed in concentration.

Suddenly, there was a crash and a loud yelp from the office.

"What––!" Jeremy cut himself off this time, not needing Gabe's quick "Shhh" to know when to be quiet. Not that Mr. Robbins would've noticed a quiet exclamation from his supply closet––he was too busy (Jeremy guessed) falling out of his chair.

Jeremy listened with undeniable delight as the principal picked himself up––using words any student would certainly have been sent to the office for uttering––and stormed into the hallway.

"Come on," said Gabe, already tumbling out of the closet. Jeremy followed more cautiously, still trying not to sneeze.

"We've got to log out."

Gabe darted over and erased their presence from the computer, returning it to the blank screen and password request it'd shown before its exposure to Jeremy's steadily improving hacking finesse. He moved toward the door, gesturing impatiently for his friend to follow.

Jeremy was paused in the middle of the room, admiring the remains of the principal's swiveling desk chair. It was crumpled in a heap on the carpet, back twisted halfway around itself and one of the legs broken clean off.

"Wow," he said, looking from Gabe to the chair and back. "Did you do that?"

Gabe shrugged. "Maybe," he admitted. "I can, you know, sometimes do things? Move things. Little things, with my head." He shrugged again. "Or it just broke on its own. It's an old chair."

Footsteps sounded just outside the door, and both boys froze. The footsteps passed.

"Right," said Jeremy, deciding to think about this stunning new revelation after he was away from the threat of expulsion and eternal grounding. "We need to go. Who knows how long it'll take him to get new screws?"

Gabe rolled his eyes, then stuck out his tongue for good measure. "Come on, then." He sniffed. "You're never going to get good at making trouble if you get yourself caught over chairs."

By the time the principal returned with the janitor. they were out of the office and halfway to the cafeteria, arguing the merits of PB&J over leftover chicken, fortuitously missing screws forgotten.


	6. Chapter 6

6.

Gabe sat up in bed, panting, ears straining for the sound of...what? Nothing but the usual racket of Rob snoring in the room next door. As a senior, he had gotten first crack at the coveted "apartment-style dorm housing", but it turned out all that meant was that the university stopped having to pay for their food.

He pushed some hair out of his eyes and looked at the clock. 3:45. Plenty of time to go back to sleep. He technically did have to pass today's final in order to graduate, though he didn't need anything over a fifty-two percent.

He threw off the sheets and got out of bed, wondering what he'd been listening for. Voices? Yeah, voices, from his dream. It'd been a weird dream, like the ones he used to get as a kid. Sometimes they felt really real, and he was listening to people talking, seeing the people and knowing with crazy dream logic that the bodies were just representations of who he knew was talking, that it was really just the voices. Different dreams were like a memory replaying––a memory of his that he'd never had. He'd talk with the voices or other people, people he knew he knew, knew he'd known for ages in dreamland, but had never met in real life.

Moving quietly in the dark room, Gabe switched out his pajama bottoms for jeans and slipped outside, first into the hallway, then out of the building altogether. The night air was cool, bordering on cold, and goosebumps rose on his bare arms. But he kept going, wandering down the deserted campus lane. Some lights were on––it was cramming season, after all––but no one was outside.

There was a hobo sleeping in the quad, as usual, because for all the air of secluded academia, this was still the middle of New York City. He supposed he'd miss it in another three weeks, when he flew off to San Francisco a freshly graduated and accredited translator. That would be different, at least.

(Sometimes, like late at night after having a weird dream, Gabe couldn't shake the feeling that his life was unspeakably dull, that there must be something _more_ to do, something important and exciting.)

The hobo rolled over, snoring almost as loud as Rob. The old coat he was using for a blanket slipped down his chest. It was a trench coat, just like the one the guy in Gabe's dream had worn.

This night's had been another one of the "voices with physical representations" ones, and Gabe's subconscious had pulled up the image of the weird guy in a trench coat he'd seen watching bees in Central Park when he was...too little to remember when, actually, but it was the only figure he remembered ever seeing in real life. Trench Coat had been matched to a serious, gravelly voice that, again with the crazy dream logic, Gabe totally recognized. It, he, whatever, had said... Gabe didn't really remember what he'd said, because the bit that stuck in his waking memory was how the voice suddenly cut off with a sort of frantic gasp and yelled "Dean!" Then Gabe had woken up, the alarm and concern of that shout still ringing in his ears.

Gabe rubbed his eyes. The "walk to clear his head" thing wasn't working, but he wasn't tired either. He supposed he could go study. Or find someone to chat with online.

He was on the verge of turning back for the dorm when a voice caught his attention. It wasn't any he'd ever heard in a dream, but it seemed oddly agitated for four o'clock in the morning, even during Finals Week.

Creeping towards the source of the noise, Gabe recognized the voice and shape of Simon Garfield, his class's designated know-it-all. Simon was pacing and wringing his hands in the neurotic and irritating way that had driven Gabe, once or twice, to shred the dweeb's papers just before he turned them in. Another figure, standing silently while Simon paced around her in the open space of the small crossroads, was decidedly female, and dressed for May in Hawaii, not New York. Her arms were crossed, but she didn't look cold. More like a cat about to leap on an unsuspecting mouse.

Edging closer, Gabe began to hear what Simon was whining about now. "...I just never get any respect! I'm smarter and she knows it, and so does he, and I _deserve_ that fellowship!"

Even from the back, Gabe could tell the woman was rolling her eyes. _He_ certainly was. "Yes," she said impatiently, "You deserve it. So we have a deal?"

Simon slowed to a halt, breathing heavily through his nostrils. He looked the woman up and down. "Ye-es," he said slowly. "Yeah. I ace the test, get the research fellowship, and make the anthropological discovery of the year. Cover of National Geographic. Fame and fortune."

"Just as you say." The woman shrugged prettily. She had a nice back, and long, thick, dark hair. "And when you die in ten years, I get your soul."

Gabe, peering at them from behind the nearest tree, gave himself a quick mental check. It wasn't beyond Simon, he thought, to make a cagey deal for some fellowship nobody else probably wanted anyway, but did she just say _"soul"_?

Simon nodded and held out his hand. At least he wasn't wringing it anymore. "We have a deal."

"Oh, honey." The wicked smile was clear in her voice as she stepped forward, pushing Simon's hand out of the way. "Not like that." She turned as she went for the kiss, and Gabe saw her face for the first time. He gasped and gagged simultaneously (producing a sort of strangled noise), stepped back abruptly from the tree and, tripping over a root, fell on his ass.

Simon stood there with his eyes closed and lips puckered, ready for what was probably the first lip-locking he'd ever had, but Gabe didn't have time to enjoy the sight. He was too busy scooting backwards as the––oh God, surely not a _woman_!––turned with a hiss of disgust and irritation and started advancing on him.

It––she––_it_ had a face like Gabe could almost but not quite remember seeing in memory-dreams over the years, and _knew_ he'd seen one time he'd always assumed had been a dream but now was definitely considering had actually happened. Itwas like two faces layered on top of each other, one button-cute and female and one that reminded him of an orc from the old Lord of the Rings movies. With red eyes.

The...thing stalked toward him, hips swishing in a predatory manner. "What have we here?" it asked, and its voice was still that of a young, attractive woman. This could not be happening. That time with Krissy and not-her-dad, when he was...five? Six? Okay, his age definitely didn't matter right now. What mattered was that he'd known that salt would beat the demon––yes, it was definitely a demon; let's go with that. Just like that computer game.

Maybe it was a joke. She sounded like a chick because she was a chick, in a really good mask. Maybe his class had decided that before they graduated, they wanted to team up and pull one over on him. Someone had called Jeremy, who gave them the idea of basing it on _Supernatural_. He didn't know why that game in particular––he'd never told anyone it gave him weird dreams––but hey, why not that game.

But the air of malevolence, of hatred for hatred's sake coming off the approaching figure was too real to be faked.

So...salt. He looked around, still scooting backwards. He should stand up. The closest salt would be in the cafeteria, back up towards the dorms. But he couldn't risk the demon near all those people. What else? Iron! How did he know that? Who cared? There was a literally God-damned demon after him!

Was his key made of iron?

Backing up against another tree, Gabe scrambled to his feet and drew the room key from around his neck. It was very small. "Back, demon!" he shouted. Just like in a video game. It sounded a lot less witty now.

The demon slowed, though Gabe seriously doubted it was because of the fearsome threat of his little ounce of really-hoping-it-was-iron. More like it had him trapped against a tree.

It stared at him curiously. "What _are_ you?" it pressed. "You look human. You smell human. Yet there's something..."

It came closer, completely ignoring the key in Gabe's hand, searching his face for something that he couldn't imagine was there. He glanced around frantically. There was a branch a few feet above his head. Making a snap decision, he threw the key at the demon's face––even it wasn't iron, it could still be a distraction––and jumped. He caught the branch and swung, momentum carrying him around the tree. Then he started running.

Gabe had been doing track and cross-country for over ten years now, spring and fall and practicing during the off-season just because he could. Sometimes he dreamt that he had wings.

The demon caught up after just a few strides, jogging easily along side him. Gabe wondered whether Simon was still standing at the crossroads. He didn't look back to check.

"You're faster than a usual human," it said, considering. "And you can see my face, can't you?" It gave what Gabe thought maybe passed for a smile. He sped up, but the demon kept the pace. "I could kill you, I suppose, just to prevent any trouble later on."

"I'd rather you didn't," said Gabe, then decided it was better to spend breath on running than wisecracking and put on another burst of speed. He was really sprinting now, but he could keep it up for at least another minute.

"I think you're right," agreed the demon, still at his side. It showed no signs of tiring. "Crowley would want me to bring you in, anyway. He likes to know about peculiar things."

Something told Gabe that, no matter how nice living was, he did not want to meet Crowley. Maybe it was some other half-forgotten dream, or maybe it was just the way the demon sounded...respectful when it said the name. Anyone a Crossroads Demon (and that was definitely what this was; he was sure of it) was afraid of was someone he was perfectly happy to never be introduced to.

Spotting a bike rack, he veered sharply to the left and leapt over the iron bumps.

That might slow the demon down slightly. Gabe kept going, darting between the Schools of Natural Biology and Engineering, towards the rear wall of the student cafe. It was closed at this time of night, so no one would be there to get hurt, but the back window was usually left open as summer approached.

It was shut. The back door was also locked. Gabe glanced around for something to break the glass with and lunged for a loose stone on the ground, but just as he reached it, it flew from his grasp and crashed against the opposite wall of the alley, crumbling to pieces.

Gabe looked up to see the demon standing in the mouth of the trap he'd blocked himself into. It showed its teeth, and this time, he didn't think it was trying to smile.

"Well, well, well," it said, moving slowly forward. It pushed its hand towards him, and this time it was Gabe who went flying into the wall, back first. That hurt.

He slid down, panting and probably concussed. Something was nagging at the back of his brain, though he thought it might be shards of his skull. "That all you got?" No more running now, so he might as well make witty remarks.

"You do like to play, don't you?" asked the demon good-naturedly. "Quite the prankster, I bet."

"I do my best," conceded Gabe. He wondered if he could stand without falling. His head felt like it was going to explode.

"Oh, Crowley will get a kick out of you." The demon's grin was unmistakeable, cruel and twisted. "And some blood, and whatever else you've got behind those pretty eyes of yours."

It reached for him, to take him to Hell or worse. Gabe closed his eyes. With one hand, he pushed away the wall, and the other he shoved up at the demon with all his might and momentum, and, just possibly, a bit of the pressure in his head.

Gabe sprang to his feet and the demon flew into the air and crashed back to the ground some ten feet away.

"Wha––" managed Gabe, leaning back against the wall and clutching at his head, He hadn't done anything like that since...

Memories started rushing in, sort of in reverse order but really no order at all. There was the time he pulled all the screws out of the principal's chair, just like he'd just thrown a demon in the air. He hadn't thought about that in years––Jeremy had never asked, and he hadn't done anything like it again until tonight. He remembered more times, when he was little: moving toys, levitating the candy down from the top shelf, playing with water in the bath. There was a hazy time, even, watching the tv and knowing it was wrong...

...And that sent him back further, before he was born, to the idiot Winchesters in Kali's cheap motel and his brother. Had he really...? Well, obviously, because here he was.

There were so many more memories of before he was born. Kali––damn that girl!––and other gods, most of them far less fun. Well, Artemis was a looker, but she never took to him. He remembered showing up in Jotenheim claiming to be Loki, waving a bit of celestial mojo around to make it so. Like the Norse weren't too stupid to buy it anyway, sword, shield and dragonboat.

They hadn't been that bad, really. No worse than the humans. Soooooo many humans. If humans said a thing reproduced like rabbits, then gods said it reproduced like humans. There had been good times with some of them, though. Mostly only good times on his part, but who cared? They were good times.

And sometimes the humans surprised him with times of their own. The Berlin Wall was one of his favorite memories, and not just because he'd gotten America's jerk of a President to suggest he was a jelly doughnut on international television. First they put it up just like stupid little warring ants, then in a matter of decades, they were pulling it down again and proclaiming peace and unity.

And that just led back to the motel with his brother––so many times with his brothers! So much... Father, they're dumber than humans! Never stopped arguing, except for the little ones who were just so many mindless drones. Well, a few might be okay. They'd evidently gotten better while he was gone, but by the time he re-entered the game, there wasn't exactly time to catch up.

Why the hell had Castiel been watching bees?

They _were_ dumber than humans, he realized. Past tense. Gabe had fewer dreams of listening to voices as he grew up not because he was growing out of them, but because there were fewer voices to hear.

Meanwhile, the demon had gotten to her feet again. It started toward him angrily, then stopped, unsure. If he didn't stop acting like a headachy weakling, she was going to attack again in a matter of seconds.

"Hello," he said, grinning brightly. "Sorry about that. Guess I don't know my own strength." He certainly wasn't up to his usual witty banter. Though his head and back did hurt. That was new. He would need to watch out for this body.

"What are you?" the demon asked, edging sideways towards him. He decided to take pity on the girl and moved into the center of the alley so she could circle properly.

"What do I look like?" he asked, genuinely a bit curious.

She squinted at him warily. "You were human as dirt. Now you glow. Dim and impure, but glowing."

He nodded. 'Impure' fit just about right.

"Well then." He snapped his fingers and the demon flew against a wall and stuck to it, pinned flat like a butterfly in the entomology labs. Which, if he remembered correctly, were in that very building. What a funny world.

He sidled towards her, glorying in the regained power. His back still hurt. "You want to know who I am?" He remembered the last time he'd done this, in slightly different circumstances. Damn Winchesters.

"My name," he said slowly, milking the tension for all it was worth, "is Gabriel."

Her eyes widened. So he was known. That was satisfying.

"And sweetheart––" he put a hand on her ugly chin and tilted it to look straight into her burning red eyes–– "I am _back_."

The demon ruined his moment by talking. "And now you'll send me running back to carry this message to Crowley?"

He remembered Crowley now, too, though they'd never met. Sneaky little bastard. One of the better demons, though, in a nasty, conniving fashion.

"Oh, no, sorry." Gabriel dropped her chin and shrugged carelessly. "That has nice dramatic appeal, but it's a bit stupid, don't you think? Like letting your opponent know you have an ace up your sleeve ahead of time." He rested a palm on her forehead and concentrated, willing his Grace up to burn through her little demonic soul like an anti-aircraft missile through a WWI bomber.

Wow, he really had let the human analogies into his head. Weird what twenty-two years could do.

Also, the missile pods were empty.

"Damn," he muttered. He knew this plan was a bad idea. Stupid Lucifer.

"What's the matter, can't get it up?" The demon had a wicked gleam in her eye.

"Oh shut up," said Gabriel, and recited the most painful exorcism he could think of, sending her to the deepest pits of Hell. She might still work her way up to talk to Crowley, but it'd take a while.

When the body stopped thrashing and spewing smoke, he let it drop to the ground. There was no sign of life in the girl, not that he'd really expected it. Crossroads Demons wore their bodies hard.

Gabriel stood in the alleyway, wondering what to do next. He'd leave the body here, of course––who knew even where it'd been from, much less how long the demon had been wearing it. And the last thing he wanted was to get stuck in some dull human police investigation.

Not, he had to admit, that he had as much choice in the matter as he once might have. Putting a hand up to the back of his head, Gabriel found it sticky with blood, and his back felt like one big bruise. _Bruising_. That was a human feeling if there ever was one, right between sexual orgasms and being so bloody stupid you sacrificed yourself so two idiot brothers could save your ex-girlfriend (who'd just tried to _kill_ you) and maybe, just maybe, stop the Apocalypse.

Of course, he hadn't quite sacrificed himself. Obviously. Luci had to kill an angel for those boys to get out of that room, but he didn't need to know that removing a Grace from the world when it was in his brother was an almost identical sensation to removing a Grace from the world when his brother had just ripped it out to save his own skin.

Gabriel rather suspected it was a different sensation for himself, though. His way hurt more. Even in memory, the pain absolutely dwarfed the growing bruise that was his back and skull.

So here he was. Several millennia worth of knowledge (most of it dull as catshit), telekinesis not much stronger than a ghost, and a human body no more breakable than most but that he couldn't heal for love or money.

Somewhere out there, one of the few brothers he knew he had left––or knew he had left as of thirty minutes ago––was fighting for one of the humans who had, against all odds, stopped the End of Days.

He remembered now what Castiel had been saying before he broke off in a shout. "They're coming back..."

But first, he was hungry. So the (former) archangel Gabriel knelt down and pulled an earring off the dead girl's body, then picked the lock on the Student Cafe. He took all the candy bars except the Butterfingers, because Butterfingers were just gross.

It was good to be back.


	7. Epilogue

_A/N: It's pretty long, but I nonetheless think of this as the Epilogue. So it is. I hope you've liked this so far! _

Epilogue

Someone was pounding on the front door. Jeremy rolled out of bed, stumbled over to the door, and yanked it open. "What."

Despite the vindictive hope in the back corner of his brain, Gabe did not fall forward onto the placemat. "Hey, Jer," he said, stepping in, looking way too awake for how dark it still was outside. "Get on a computer. I need you to wipe me out of the system."

"What," Jeremy repeated. This was not, actually, the first time Gabe had turned up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, but it was definitely one of the worse times he'd chosen to do it.

Gabe waved his hand at the door and it slipped from Jeremy's hand and shut with a click. Jeremy could've sworn his friend didn't actually touch it. "I said," Gabe restated with exaggerated patience, "I need you to get online and use your little hacking skills to wipe me from the system. Gabriel Greene, son of Elaine Greene, attendee of New York public schools and various other institutions, needs to disappear. Tonight, ideally."

Jeremy looked at his friend curiously, suddenly more awake. "Now what'd you do, steal a car?" He noticed for the first time, in the dim, pre-dawn light seeping through the window-shades, that Gabe's usually-curly hair was matted down with something dark, and the glint in his eyes was...was the usual Gabe "I'm getting in trouble" gleam, but with a sharper edge that Jeremy wasn't used to seeing. "Gabe, what happened?"

"Nothing you need to know about," Gabe replied with unusual seriousness. "Just do your techie thing and I'll be gone."

Jeremy stared at him for a moment more. "Fine," he decided, and turned toward the kitchen. "I went to sleep three hours ago, so I making coffee. Then I'm not getting on a computer until you tell me the whole story."

Twenty minutes later, Jeremy was sitting at his desk, logging into the New York City School District's administration server, armed with a full mug of coffee and just enough of the story that he suspected this was all a particularly vivid, graduation-induced anxiety dream to end all anxiety dreams. That was certainly a more logical explanation than the one Gabe––Gabriel?––was offering.

Even if he had snapped his fingers and made the coffee pot spin around the room three times and do a backflip before depositing most of its contents in Jeremy's mug. Without spilling a drop.

("Fascinating," Jeremy had said. "You don't actually need to snap, do you? It's just a habit. A focussing mechanism. Telekinesis can't possibly result from the movement itself." Gabe had glared at him and muttered something Jeremy had pretended not to hear that sounded a lot like, "barely better than human.")

After elementary and middle school was GHA, whose preppy, Upper East Side firewalls were really only slightly more complicated than those of NYCSD. The University was the most difficult to crack––their protections were updated every spring by grad students––but in twelve hours, Jeremy was going to formally receive a degree in computer cryptography and programming. He could handle it.

He leaned back and took a draught of coffee as the computer whirred through a combination of possible passwords. The silence stretched out. It wasn't a comfortable silence, like the ones they'd enjoyed on so many lazy afternoons before, but an awkward competition of who could refuse to talk longest.

Jeremy gave up. "So," he said slowly, spinning his chair towards his bed, on which Gabe was lying and staring at the ceiling.

"Yeah?" Gabe asked distractedly. He looked like his brain was a million miles away.

"So," Jeremy repeated, "you're like the metacrisis Doctor. Tenth Doctor. Human body, no regenerating––um, reality-warping––but all the knowledge and experience." He'd been mulling over the analogy for the past ten minutes or so.

Gabe sat up, mind back in the present. "You're telling me you're still catching up on that? It's been three years!"

"Dude, it's like fifty seasons," said Jeremy defensively. "I'm barely at thirty-five."

Gabe rolled his eyes, and for a moment, Jeremy could believe they were back before thirty minutes ago, joking around like usual. "He's not even like––"

Jeremy raised his hands protectively. "I am going to stop you right now," he said firmly, "before you ask me to accept that yet another fictional universe is actually real."

"So you believe me," said Gabe, leaning forward, hands on his knees.

The computer binged and Jeremy turned back to it. Once in, the site was easy to navigate. "I'm considering it," he admitted. It did explain a couple things, like how Gabe learned languages, and a hazy memory Jeremy was beginning to recall of hiding in the principal's closet.

The hospital records were even easier to get to than the school archives. He found the ones for Gabriel Greene quickly enough, and dragged them over to the trash can. A window popped up, asking whether he was truly ready to delete these items forever. His finger hovered over the button. There was a strange sense of deja vu to the action. "Gabe?"

Gabe was standing at his shoulder. Jeremy wasn't sure how long he'd been there.

"Last chance. Are you serious about this?"

Gabe looked at him incredulously. "You still think this is a joke?"

"Well," said Jeremy, and he couldn't help giving a sort of crooked half-smile, "you did once put dye in all the cafeteria food and convince the staff that it was some made-up fungus, and they needed to fulfill their obligation to feed us by ordering pizza."

Gabe waved him off. "That's nothing," he promised with a grin. "I once got Thor to marry a troll. His face when he got into bed and––" He broke off abruptly, grin vanished behind something wooden and dark. "Never mind. Press the button, wipe me out, and I'm off."

Jeremy tapped Yes and the box, and Gabriel Greene of Brooklyn, disappeared from the screen.

Then he opened a new window and brought up the program he'd written idly, one afternoon, after pulling a twenty-hour James Bond marathon with his roommates.

"What are you doing?" Gabe asked sharply, staring at the screen.

"Wiping myself from the system," said Jeremy. He got up, leaving the program to its own devices, and began throwing things in a bag. A couple extra shirts, a spare pair of jeans...it was a good thing he'd fallen asleep in his clothes after the pre-graduation revelries, or he'd have to change now as well.

"_What?_" asked Gabriel, confusion and disbelief and just a touch of anger in his voice. "_Why?_"

Jeremy stopped considering whether or not to bring a toothbrush and spun to face the...angel. He should get used to thinking of him as an angel. "Because, idiot," he said with fond exasperation. "Either the coffee pot was a trick, somehow, and you're my friend who's completely cracked and needs looking after, or this is the most real and important thing I've ever heard of, and you're my friend with, sure, a little more oomph than we knew before, but still going out to do a job that required a partner in the _video game_ version." He paused, then added, "Either way, you're my friend and I'm coming."

For possibly the first time that Jeremy could remember, Gabe just stood there, gaping at him like a fish. So he put the toothbrush in his bag, grabbed his computer from the desk and shouldered past him, back to the kitchen.

"Jeremy," Gabe called after him. His voice was quiet, a thin veneer of centuries-long build-up of casualness covering an equally old core of sadness and pain.

Jeremy turned back. "Yeah?"

Gabe stood in the middle of the room, affecting his usual devil-may-care grin. "I don't really do 'friends'. I left my family because I couldn't stand their company. I'm a rebel. A lone wolf." The grin slipped a little. "Everyone's who's thought I was their friend for the last three thousand years had been talking to a person I made up."

"Three thousand years, maybe," argued Jeremy, "but not the last twenty-two. It's like in the fourth Ender book, where––"

Gabe interrupted him. "Whatever nerdy literary analogy you're about to make, I won't get."

"Fine," he conceded. "My point is that, yeah, I didn't know you were the archangel Gabriel until this morning. Butneither did you. You were reborn a human, right? I got that much?"

Gabe nodded, so he kept going.

"Then this is _you_. Shooting rubber bands in class, dating Cami for three years, stealing my mom's cookies––and paying her later, by the way, don't think I didn't see you––and playing video games and that G–– that damn smirk you do whenever you're about to get me in trouble. So yeah, again, we're friends and I'm coming." The computer hummed in his arms as his program–– more of a virus, really––worked its way through the Net.

He continued on to the kitchen, Gabe trailing behind like a dumbstruck puppy.

Except of course it was Gabe, so he couldn't not keep arguing about something. "You don't need to do that," he said abruptly as Jeremy fashioned impromptu sheathes for the meat- and bread-knives, as well as packaging for some actual meat and bread.

"What?"

"Say 'God.' Not say 'God.' Even if he cared, my father is...well, only he knows. Not here, that's for sure."

Now it was Jeremy's turn to stare incredulously at his friend. "You're kidding me, right?"

Gabe stared back. "At this point? Jeremy, have you _looked_ at the world? It's a crapheap! Trust me, Dad's not around."

Jeremy put down the knife he was holding, at least to diminish the urge to stick in Gabe's head and and see if it forced the common sense into the open. "Okay, this is the third obvious thing I've had to explain to you in as many minutes, so try to take it in." He took a deep breath. "Have you ever looked at your life? The last twenty-two years, at least? Gabe, you haven't told me much here, but thus far I've got..."––he began ticking things off on his fingers––"First off, no one but me is home right now. We would _not_ be having this conversation if my housemates weren't all sleeping elsewhere tonight. Secondly, you're actually _named_ Gabriel. As a human. Do you realize how unlikely that is? Then your babysitter's dad was possessed by a demon, when you were there to see it, and by the sounds of it, Krissy wasn't too unfamiliar with the situation herself. We played a video game based on the world you lived in, then stopped for no real reason. You, and I apparently, conveniently forgot about any psychic powers as soon as you got any control over them. Then, when it sounds like things might be heating up again, Apocalypse-wise, you just happen to stubble into a Crossroads Deal, and remember everything just in time to beat the demon."

He'd nearly filled both hands, and Gabe was staring at him with a expression reminiscent of a drowning man who sees light and isn't certain if it's the sun or the end of the tunnel.

"That's not even counting stuff you didn't mention, or never noticed," he added. "Point is, there are way too many coincidences. Someone wanted you here. To have a normal childhood, but not so much that you never found out the truth. And then to get back in the game." _"With help,"_ he considered adding, but decided to leave it.

Gabe stood for a moment more, then sank into a chair. "Oh."

They were quiet again, and it still wasn't a lazy afternoon silence, but a contemplative one. A silence for making choices. Jeremy loaded a couple bags.

It didn't break until they got outside.

"Oh my God," Jeremy gasped, not caring whether he was heard or not. "You actually did steal a car." It was dark blue. And shiny. And a Corvette.

Gabe shrugged. "I couldn't fly." He slid into the driver's seat and shoved the bags of food he'd been carrying into the back. "Come on, it's off a lot. It's nobody's baby."

Jeremy took a deep breath, shouldered his backpack more firmly, and got in the passenger side of the stolen vehicle. "Where to?"

"Krissy's," said Gabe decisively. "I don't know what's been going on for the last twenty-two years. The Apocalypse stopped, obviously, but there must be more. Stuff human media didn't pick up. Krissy might know."

"And she can stitch up your head," Jeremy pointed out.

Gabe fingered the back of his skull thoughtfully. "Yeah." He looked around at the collegiate cul-de-sac and frowned in disappointment. "You know, I always sort of assumed that if I ever made a dramatic exit, I'd be riding into the sunset."

"Go east first," suggested Jeremy, not really paying attention to his friend's dramatics. "The last thing my bug does is cancel my bank account." He checked the time on his tablet. "We have six minutes until $1300 is lost to cyberspace."

Gabe's eyes widened. "My bank account! You only took me out of school."

"Don't worry," Jeremy assured him. He tapped his computer. "We can run your name through the program next."

"And you couldn't have done that in the first place because...?"

"I had to make sure you weren't nuts," said Jeremy, punching him playfully in the shoulder. Gabe snapped his fingers in response, and Jeremy's backpack leapt up and hit him over the head. With all the knives, it was surprisingly heavy.

Then they drove into the sunrise.


End file.
